What Did Schmidt Know, Anyway
by 123serendipitee
Summary: To listen to Schmidt, or not to listen to Schmidt! That was always the question. just a little piece of cotton candy FLUFF, based on "Bells". :o
1. Chapter 1

The thing with Schmidt, was that he was an idiot. It was pretty universally recognized that the guy was an idiot. A big, softhearted, lovable lunk of an idiot, maybe, but still...an idiot.

Except for the times when he wasn't. Because Schmidt could also see things with an unexpected clarity sometimes, and it would just jump out at you and catch you on the jaw like a left hook, and daze you for a few seconds.

But it wasn't_ always _easy to tell the difference between the idiot moments, and the idiot savant moments...and therein lay the problem.

For instance, after Schmidt assured Nick that having "those kinds" of thoughts about their female roommate was not just normal, but to be expected, Nick had really wanted to believe that that was true. Had really wanted to believe that he was just being a regular guy, and that he was not, in fact, a pathetic pervy perv.

And had really REALLY wanted to believe that he wasn't actually starting to fall for the girl.

Because that was a fear that was gaining momentum with each passing day.

And that would be unacceptable.

So Nick liked to tell himself that surely it was far more likely that the slightly light-headed and loopy way he'd been feeling lately when she walked into the room was simply the natural physiological reaction that occurred when you put normally occurring hormones and pheromones into a test tube, applied extreme heat and pressure, and then bottled them all up tightly, with no release valve in sight.

Because that sure was how the loft had been feeling lately. And Nick had struggled a lot with feeling guilty about his own reactions and...er...coping mechanisms. But adopting Schmidt's outlook would absolve him of a lot of that.

Of course, Schmidt wasn't the best possible barometer of morals and ethics at any point, much less within the sexual realm, so Nick still had his moments of doubt. But hey, since even WINSTON had admitted to being affected by her in that way, surely it wasn't that bad.

That's what Nick told himself.

And so, his libido having gratefully latched onto the proferred excuse for it's recent misbehavior, he consequently found himself feeling less and less inhibited in imagining exactly what it would be like to have sex with her.

With Jess. The completely maddening, exasperating, frustrating, aggravating, awkward, dorky, fascinating, endearing, adorable, irresistible, beautiful girl who lived right across the hall from him, and had been making his life really complicated of late.

Because she was a pest and an annoyance, but as it turned out, she was also a really great friend.

And a damn SIREN. The most dangerous kind, in that she was completely unaware of the seduction of her own song. Or maybe it was just that weird things worked for him, and where other men were unable to resist the fire and ice beauty of the Cece's of the world, Nick was much more attracted to warmth and humor and coziness and comfort, and maybe just a little bit of crazy. At any rate, there were times when he felt like it was inevitable that he would end up succumbing to Jess's oblivious siren song, even if it just meant crashing magnificently on the jagged rocks of impossibility in the end.

And as an inevitability, it began to hold an irresistible allure for his curiosity. Sex. With Jess. As the very notion of it began to sit more comfortably upon him, his fantasies had became less tormented "Letters-to-Playboy" style, and more honest speculation. What _would _it be like?

Passion was a given. It was JESS. She lived every minute of her life with passion and enthusiasm.

Beyond that, what could a man expect?

Experience? Definitely not. But the willingness to experiment? Almost guaranteed.

He was sure that she would be shy in the beginning, painfully, beautifully awkward and shy. But that that wouldn't last long. And that bashfulness would give way to brazenness, as she gained confidence in her partner.

And since Jess basically talked non-stop in real life, it was also a pretty sure bet that that trait would continue in the bedroom as well. And although Nick reflected that there would almost certainly be moments when he'd have to shut her up by kissing her soundly...he also wondered what form her creative verbosity might take when her eyelashes were fluttering helplessly and she was gasping for breath.

So yes, as a matter of fact, sometimes he _would _stand back to let her enter the elevator ahead of him, ostensibly being a gentleman, but really just enjoying the view. And then he _would_ spend the whole silent ride down thinking very very GUYISH thoughts about exactly what it would be like to tap that sweet little piece of ass.

He was pretty sure that it would be the greatest adventure of his life.

And he was also pretty sure that that pathetic little weasel Paul hadn't beaten him there, yet.

Yes, these were the kinds of fantasies that Nick knew Schmidt would definitely pronounce "normal", and put his stamp of approval on.

However, having resolved that, more concerning were the subtler, sneakier thoughts that he had felt taking over his wayward mind lately.

Because as annoying as he found it, he would also find himself unable to look away when Jess met Paul at the door with a happy hug, a shy kiss, and a giggle of promise-all because he felt a sudden keen interest in what it might be like to be her boyfriend.

They'd be on another emergency toilet paper run to the drugstore, and Nick's usual impatience when she lost herself, yet again, amongst the plethora of hair styling products, would be tempered by the distracting fact that he was discovering that the urge to just reach out and grab her hand at such times was not only tempting, but so organically intuitive that it had begun to take all his concentration_ not_ to.

He'd taken to wondering what it would be like to just slide his arm across the back of the couch and gently pull her head over on to his shoulder, so that he could softly kiss her forehead before just snuggling down and watching the rest of her movie with her.

Hell, there was one whole hellish night at work when the only way he managed_ not _to punch someone in the face was by continually reminding himself that he'd promised Jess to help her wash her car the next day.

This is what he was reduced to. Auto detailing fantasies. All because a certain someone would be there too, doubtless making up a song about it, the lyrics of which would link their names together, and probably include some horrible puns about "coming clean" because "grime doesn't pay".

Yep, _these _kinds of thoughts and impulses were growing in strength and number lately, and would almost definitely NOT be Schmidt-approved, Nick knew. But he was finding more and more that he just didn't care. Because much-preferable to Schmidt's voice in his head was the incredibly sweet task of imagining kissing Jess for the first time...imagining it in every time and place that it was possible to imagine.

But the _way_...the _way _he kissed her...that never varied in his fantasies. Because no matter when, no matter where, in his mind their first kiss was always infinitely soft and full of wonder, with plenty of taking time to relish the ridiculous softness of her lips, and the way that she looked up at him, with round, round eyes, just before he made them close by gathering her even closer, slanting his head, and lazily letting his tongue caress hers with all of the unspoken words it had been holding back lately.

And as it turned out, those silent words out-shouted Schmidt in his head, any old day.


	2. Chapter 2

But then there were the times that Schmidt just couldn't be ignored.

"All I'm hearing is that I can't use my bathroom because_** you're poor**_."

That was how it started, although really, no it wasn't, because this argument had been a running theme for them for months on end now.

Ever since Schmidt had given up on him getting his butt back in school, or looking for a job that _couldn't _be performed almost as well by a trained chimp.

Because Nick was broke. The worst kind of broke, that knew he was broke, was miserable being broke, saw no possibility of non-broke-ness glimmering on the horizon, and yet was absolutely, spectacularly, and in every way unmotivated to do anything about it.

"Nick, you're the smartest guy I know," Schmidt would sometimes whine, kvetching like a Jewish mother, "It would be one thing if you actually liked being a bartender, but you hate it. You hate everything about it. Why do you insist on squandering away your potential like this? Not to mention the fact that continuing to associate with you in this condition is really bringing down my cool factor."

And when you knew as much trash on a guy as Nick did on Schmidt, it sometimes made it really hard to take him seriously. But one day Schmidt had stopped cold, in the middle of one of their most ridiculous arguments ever, to demand heatedly, "Where's this coming from man?! Look, you _chose_ to be a bartender. You _chose_ to drop out of law school. You're not some down-on-your-luck hardscrabble guy, you're just a_** loser **_who..."

And then he caught himself, and didn't finish that sentence. But it didn't matter. It had already swung at Nick out of nowhere, that left hook, catching him squarely on the jaw.

_**"loser"**_

Schmidt was right. Schmidt was horribly, horribly right. So right that Nick couldn't even begin to defend himself. He _was _a loser. Or at least, he was on the fast track to becoming one, and he was seeing no viable exit ramps in sight.

So he'd holed himself up in his room for half the afternoon cursing (for the millionth time) the irony of the fact that it was actually a paralyzing _fear _of failure that always caused him to fail in the end.

Except for the times when he was so afraid of failing that he never even got up the nerve to try to begin with.

When Jess knocked gently on his door, and stuck her head in with a soft, "Hi", he automatically just scooted over and made room for her to come sit next to him on his bed.

She was going to anyway, whether he wanted her to or not.

"Hey," he answered, as she settled herself in next to him, smoothing down the folds of yet another impossibly short skirt. But Nick was too disheartened to even flirt with the notion of having an inappropriate thought about his roommate, at that moment.

He closed his eyes and inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose, and she began tentatively, "Sooooo, Schmidt wanted me to come check on you and make sure you were ok."

"Schmidt can go to hell," he answered dispassionately.

"You don't mean that," Jess said, and Nick sniffed in sad agreement, "Naw."

"And he didn't mean what he said either, you know..."

"Yeah, Jess, I don't want to talk about it."

She let the silence sit on them for a few seconds, before continuing more chipperly, "Well, what _can _I talk about? Is it okay if I talk about how you're like seriously the coolest dude I ever met, and I think you're one of my favoritest people ever?"

Against his will, the corner of his mouth began to turn up, but he felt it necessary to protest, "Jess, go away and stop trying to cheer me up. You're ruining the perfectly good mope I had going on here."

"Ok," she agreed, far too readily, and he damned himself for his hasty words. "I have to go get ready for this bell concert disaster, anyway. But_ you listen to me, _Mr!"

And this was where she reached out, and covered one of his hands with one of hers, and all the air rushed out of his lungs.

"Don't you ever. ever. ever. ever. let those stupid voices inside your head tell you you're a loser. You might be a little lost on the path of life right now, but you'll find your way. And whatever path you choose to pursue next, you're going to be just crazy happy and successful and fulfilled and just...completely...BALLER. You know why?"

He smiled at her use of one of Schmidt's favorite words, and asked with dry sarcasm, "Because you believe in me?" And really hoped that one or both of those reactions would be enough to keep her from noticing the fact that he had had to start blinking really fast about halfway through her speech.

And maybe it worked, because she just laughed quietly at his gentle attempt to joke, and responded, "That's right. Because no matter what, I'll be here believing in you. Cuz YOU, sir, are the bomb-dot-com in my book, any ole day."

"Is this how you cheer up your students?" he continued to tease her softly. Because he was still having to do some blinking.

"Preeeetty much," she answered absently, looking down at their joined hands as if she was just noticing them, and he wondered if she was thinking, _"but without so much hand-holding" _like he was.

And she finally patted his hand...one...two...three slow times, before reluctantly saying goodbye with a soft, lingering squeeze, and a final pat.

And then he could hear her rushing between her room and the bathroom, moving quickly now to get to her concert on time, and begging Winston as she did so, "Pleeeeease Winston! Do it for the kids!" And Winston replying adamantly, "Absolutely not, Jess. I'm taking this six pack of beer up to the roof, _right _now, and I'm not coming down until life makes sense again. This could take awhile. But enjoy your blinding optical headache."

A cold beer sounded pretty good right then. Maybe if he joined Winston up on the roof, they could figure their lives out together.

But first he was just going to keep laying there thinking about Jess for awhile, something that suddenly he was not at ALL too disheartened to do. And rebelliously, he accepted and even embraced the fact that these weren't going to be the Schmidt-approved brand of fantasies, either. No, these were going to be the kind that middle school girls rushed home to write in their diaries, in purple ink, with lots of hearts and flowers doodled around them.

Fantasies about hand-holding and first-kisses and people who told you that they believed in you no matter what, even when you didn't believe in yourself, anymore.

Nick held up his hand and surveyed it rather wonderingly. He stretched his fingers wide, and contracted them again, but found that that still didn't shake the tingling sensory memory of her hand on his.

No, Schmidt would definitely not approve of this kind of sentimental nonsense.

Schmidt would doubtless say, "Nick, please grow a pair, because living with one vagina in the house is bad enough. I don't think I can handle two of you, especially once your cycles start syncing up."

But then, what did Schmidt know, anyway.

Schmidt was an idiot.


End file.
